


Spice

by DarthAstris



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi
Genre: Glove Kink, I've always considered myself a method writer, M/M, Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use, christ what have i done, natural-state rough draft of me on my bullshit, posted unedited by request, yes I was high af when i wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 15:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15391872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthAstris/pseuds/DarthAstris
Summary: Hux is having trouble dealing with the sleeplessness, anxiety, suppressed emotions, and panic attacks that have seized him since his return from the Battle of Crait. He decides to try something a little... different.(I wanted a High!Hux fic, so I got absolutely blasted and wrote this.  By request of my friends and followers, it has been left in its natural state, and uploaded here completely unedited for the full effect.  Y'all should know it took me about 6 hours to turn this tiny thing out, mostly because I kept forgetting what the fuck I was even doing or trying to say half the time, and the other half I spent giggling at fuck knows what.  I even forgot that I'd done it until my friend reminded me a few hours ago... XD My apologies.)





	Spice

Hux reflected that the foam floating atop his evening caf accurately represented his current state of mind.  The tension of the liquid, like the pressure at the base of his skull, pulling down on the wisps of bubbles that seemed to want to float away, like the top of his head.  It had all started with a pleasant lightheadedness, a dizziness of sorts, that colluded with a tingle behind the eyes, a tickling that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a giggle or a sneeze.  He’d sat still, staring blankly at his datapad.  Unable to remember what he’d been attempting to accomplish, he’d luxuriated in the gentle hovering, rocking sensation for some time.

But now, he just wanted to touch things. 

His hand continued to stray from his datapad to the hem of his tunic, shunning the lifeless report for the silky, ribbed fabric. _Ribbed_. He thought the word funny for some odd reason.  He didn’t know why; it was a perfectly good word, after all.  He’d always felt comforted by the uniform – the way it hugged him in all the right places, and padded the areas that needed the extra authority – but not like this.  Pressing the cuff of his sleeve to his lips, he marveled at how rich the texture was, how intriguing to the sensitive skin.  Soft, but in a different way to the supple leather of the gloves he’d pulled off a few minutes ago.

A thought struck him.

Giddy, he jumped up from his desk and started to run for the closet.

_Wait. Did I just?_

He stopped, straightening himself up in the mirror and squaring off his shoulders.  He continued forward at a more measured, dignified pace, as befit an officer of the Order.

Come to think of it, what had Peavey really meant by that crack on the bridge earlier?

Lt. Arrus, the bright and promising young man that Hux had assigned to tactical, and who had served his post faithfully for three years, had been busted for possession of spice that morning.  Hux had a hard time believing Arrus could have deceived him for so long; he’d always been perfectly sharp and attentive at his station, but if he truly were an addict, then he’d undoubtedly reported at least once whilst under the influence.  Colonel Garmuth himself had marched onto the bridge to perform the arrest.  After the lieutenant had been dragged away for questioning, Peavey had remarked that there was “no place in the F.O. Navy for such detestable spiceheads” and Hux had agreed.  At least the old man had been right about matters of honor.  But now, he began to wonder.  Had it been a veiled slight against the Army, of which Peavey knew Hux was a part? What did he mean by “no place in the F.O. _Navy_?” Truth be told, Hux didn’t think the geriatric captain capable of such discreet insults, so he decided to let the matter lie.  Even if it did curl his lip.

His lips.  Right.  He’d been in the middle of something…

_Ah, yes._

Armitage crossed to the closet, or rather, _had_ crossed to the closet; he’d been staring at it, probably for quite some time already.

The doors slid back with a hiss after he tapped his code and allowed the scanner to analyze his bioreading.  He stuck his hands into the darkness at the back of the row of tunics and jackets and snatched out the garment on the last hanger.  His cheeks warmed at the memory.  He’d stolen the robe from the deck of the command shuttle’s medbay in the wake of the Starkiller Base incident.  It had been discarded there by the droids after being cut away to inspect Ren’s injuries, and for some unfathomable reason he’d picked it up and stuffed it into his own hastily packed bag.  Later, discovering it there, he’d tossed it into the back corner of his closet.  Then, he’d felt guilty for just leaving it rumpled up on the floor and had hung it up, out of sight.

He hadn’t expected Ren would want it back, despite the man’s unsightly attachment to sentimental things.

Hux knew why he wanted it _now_ , but that hadn’t been part of his reasoning back then.  How could it have been? He couldn’t have predicted, then, that he’d be the deplorable spicehead to which Peavey had referred.  The hypocrisy of his annoyance toward Peavey only made him angrier. 

Nonsense.  It was just this one time.

He ran his fingertips over the rough-hewn fabric, exploring the depth of the weave.  The fibers lacked pliability, and were frayed around the edges, not unlike the man himself.  He leaned closer, inhaling the musk of Ren’s sweat and the smoky scent of burned pine.  Closing his eyes, he mouthed at the robe, feeling its troughs and rises against the delicate skin of his lips.  The ridges were not at all soft like the orderly and smooth ribbing of his uniform.  Ribbing.  There it was again. _Hee hee_.

Hux’s mouth dropped open.   _Did I just… giggle?_

When he looked down again, he saw that the upper part of his tunic had been unfastened.  He thought that he’d only loosened the collar whilst filing his reports, but now it hung open down to his belt.  He didn’t remember doing that. 

It couldn’t be the spice, surely.  Not after this long.

After Hux’s shift had ended, he’d tracked down the evidence seized and demanded to be allowed to inspect it.  Naturally, they’d allowed him to do so.  Arrus had a right to fair representation at his hearing and Hux wanted to confirm for himself that the documentation of the search and seizure had all been properly processed.  It wasn’t _at all_ that he’d been compulsively thinking about spice for the rest of his day, or wondering why such an up and coming, brilliant young individual would want to ruin his career for a “quick fix”, as they called it.

What was the appeal?

He’d heard things about spice all his life, of course.  That a life in prison wasn’t worth whatever temporary giddiness one experienced.  That it corrupted correct thinking.  That it eroded your health and your morals. 

That it made you lose control.

Hux had already lost control.  He’d lost everything but his command, and he was certain that couldn’t be far around the corner.

During his break time, Hux had researched the particular strain of spice Arrus had been accused of possessing.  He’d found several descriptions and distilled the results into a short list: hypersensitivity to textures and sounds, mildly hallucinogenic experiences, vertigo, occasional paranoia, loss of physical coordination and motivation, and/or discombobulation of thought processes.  Anonymous users in the UnderNet had recommended it as “a mellow, 4 – 6 hour ride,” something “sure to aid with anxiety, nausea, and sleep deprivation”.  Perhaps most importantly, it had been described by numerous sources as “non-addictive”.

Hux had always heard the opposite, but he was erudite enough to recognize when something was said in service to propaganda rather than to the truth.

And he really could have used a remedy for the panic attacks and continuing lack of sleep he’d been experiencing ever since his return from the disaster on Crait.

So, smug in his assurance that he could handle it – _let’s call it an experiment_ – he’d palmed a portion of the evidence and sliced into the datafile afterward to ensure that the quantity still balanced out.

He’d locked himself in his quarters with explicit instructions to remain undisturbed for any reason.  This had become a somewhat typical request of his over the last week or so anyhow, so it he didn’t think it would raise suspicion.  Anxiety had already lanced up his spine the second he’d closed the door, and not because he was carrying a tiny portion of a highly illegal substance.  Well, not _just_ because.

After he’d dimmed the lights, put on some light Corellian opera, and loosened his collar, he’d lain upon his bed and pulled the tiny packet from his hidden sleeve pocket.  Instructions on the UnderNet suggested it could be inhaled, melted and injected, smoked, or used as an actual “spice”, added to a favorite food or drink.  Hux had thought his Tarine would probably be too strong, and might interfere with the effects of the drug (besides, this was an experiment; he thought it pertinent to observe the taste as well as the after effects), so he’d tapped it into the glass of water on his nightstand.  The powder had shot streaks, like red, sparkling lightning, through the liquid. 

_Beautiful._

The taste, however, had been horrid.  Brine-like.

He’d lain there for half an hour before he could no longer stand the inactivity.  Nothing had happened.  He’d expected the onset to be somewhat immediate, based on everything he’d read.  He didn’t feel any different from when he’d first lain down, except that now he felt even more annoyed at his lack of productivity.  He had datawork to file before tomorrow.

He’d been trying to get on with his duties when he’d been struck by the irresistible urge to touch things.

_Duties._

A peal of laughter burst forth at the puerile joke.  The sound of it took him by surprise.  Even more shocking, he found it nearly impossible to stop.

_Oh, now you’re just being immature. Stop it. “Duty” is a perfectly normal—_

But the laughter tumbled out of him, stealing his breath. His face and sides ached.  There was no denying the drug had hold of him now.   Even the fear that Mitaka might hear him wasn’t enough to stem the tide.

_Come, now! This is ridic—_

_Dick. Heh._

Despite his misgivings on the humor of the situation, the word gave him an idea.  If his fingers and lips had been that responsive to the materials he touched, how much more so his…

Belt and boots went flying.  He couldn’t shed his tunic and trousers fast enough, kicking out of one stubborn leg as he flopped backwards onto his bed.  With his undershirt rucked up to his armpits (he couldn’t be bothered to take it off), he ran the coarse robe over his chest and jammed his gloved hand into his briefs.  A flurry of hitching breaths escaped him as he freed his straining erection.  He nuzzled into the robe and gasped at the sensation of his leather-clad fingers stroking up his shaft and over the sensitive foreskin, pulling it back to reveal the pink, glistening head beneath.

_Is this what it would feel like to have Ren—_

The thought slipped from his subconscious, jarring him from his reverie.  Warmth flashed over his cheeks and reddened his ears.  He tried to ignore it, but just as his hands unleashed a storm of sensation like lightning through his nerves, that thought was too thunderous to be silenced.

What would be the point of denying it, anyway, with his cock in one hand and Ren’s singed robe in the other?

Besides, no one was here to witness this lascivious debauchery, this weakness in him.

To hell with it.  He wanted Ren.  There was no shame in it.  Ren was a handsome man.

_So strong, so broad…_

He imagined that wide, firm chest pressed against him, the wild power barely held in check beneath the surface of that pale skin, Ren’s forceful hands grabbing him, pushing him down, exploring his lines with a surprisingly gentle passion.

The soft leather surrounding him, Ren’s gloved hand.

The rough fibers of the tabard, Ren’s body.

The faint breeze of the oxygen scrubber whispering over his neck, Ren’s breath.

Hux pumped himself faster, panting as his skin crackled with need.  Heat crawled over his chest, his stomach tightening with the desire for release, until his seed spilled out over his glove and painted his chest and the robe clutched in his fist with white streaks.  Even as he came, a strange joy surged through him.  He couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

If Ren hadn’t wanted his cloak back before, he certainly wouldn’t want it now.

 

 


End file.
